LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
    Of her he loves—
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
    That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
    In this dark hour,
Than when, in passion's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
    To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
    To pleasure's thrill;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
    Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow
    In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
    But all must sleep.

Well!—there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;
    Oh! most to him,
Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed
    Round sorrow's brim.

Yes—he can smile serene at death:
Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping
    Of friends who love him;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
    No more shall move him.

ODES TO NEA;

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.

   [Greek: NEA turannei]
    EURPID. "Medea," v. 967.

Nay, tempt me not to love again,
  There was a time when love was sweet;
Dear Nea! had I known thee then,
  Our souls had not been slow to meet.
But, oh, this weary heart hath run,
  So many a time, the rounds of pain,
Not even for thee, thou lovely one,
  Would I endure such pangs again.

  If there be climes, where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unfevered by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye
Should bring no more their bliss, or pain,
Nor fetter me to earth again.
Dear absent girl! whose eyes of light,
  Though little prized when all my own,
Now float before me, soft and bright
  As when they first enamoring shone,—
What hours and days have I seen glide,
While fit, enchanted, by thy side,
Unmindful of the fleeting day,
I've let life's dream dissolve away.
O bloom of youth profusely shed!
O moments I simply, vainly sped,
Yet sweetly too—or Love perfumed
The flame which thus my life consumed;
And brilliant was the chain of flowers,
In which he led my victim-hours.

  Say, Nea, say, couldst thou, like her,
When warm to feel and quick to err,
Of loving fond, of roving fonder,
This thoughtless soul might wish to wander,—
Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim,
  Endearing still, reproaching never,
Till even this heart should burn with shame,
  And be thy own more fixt than ever,
No, no—on earth there's only one
  Could bind such faithless folly fast;
And sure on earth but one alone
  Could make such virtue false at last!

Nea, the heart which she forsook,
  For thee were but a worthless shrine—
Go, lovely girl, that angel look
  Must thrill a soul more pure than mine.
Oh! thou shalt be all else to me,
That heart can feel or tongue can feign;
I'll praise, admire, and worship thee,
  But must not, dare not, love again.

* * * * *

    —tale iter omne cave.
    PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 8.

I pray you, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore,
  Where late we thoughtless strayed;
'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends
To be no more than simple friends,
  Such lonely walks were made.

That little Bay, where turning in
From ocean's rude and angry din,
  As lovers steal to bliss,
The billows kiss the shore, and then
Flow back into the deep again,
  As though they did not kiss.

Remember, o'er its circling flood
In what a dangerous dream we stood—
  The silent sea before us,
Around us, all the gloom of grove,
That ever lent its shade to love,
  No eye but heaven's o'er us!

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble,
In vain would formal art dissemble
  All we then looked and thought;
'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal,
'Twas every thing that young hearts feel,
  By Love and Nature taught.

I stopped to cull, with faltering hand,
A shell that, on the golden sand,
  Before us faintly gleamed;
I trembling raised it, and when you
Had kist the shell, I kist it too—
  How sweet, how wrong it seemed!

Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour,
The worst that e'er the tempter's power
  Could tangle me or you in;
Sweet Nea, let us roam no more
Along that wild and lonely shore.
  Such walks may be our ruin.

* * * * *

You read it in these spell-bound eyes,
  And there alone should love be read;
You hear me say it all in sighs,
  And thus alone should love be said.

Then dread no more; I will not speak;
  Although my heart to anguish thrill,
I'll spare the burning of your cheek,
  And look it all in silence still.

Heard you the wish I dared to name,
  To murmur on that luckless night,
When passion broke the bonds of shame,
  And love grew madness in your sight?

Divinely through the graceful dance,
  You seemed to float in silent song,
Bending to earth that sunny glance,
  As if to light your steps along.

Oh! how could others dare to touch
  That hallowed form with hand so free,
When but to look was bliss too much,
  Too rare for all but Love and me!

With smiling eyes, that little thought,
How fatal were the beams they threw,
My trembling hands you lightly caught,
  And round me, like a spirit, flew.

Heedless of all, but you alone,—
  And you, at least, should not condemn.
If, when such eyes before me shone,
  My soul forgot all eyes but them,—

I dared to whisper passion's vow,—
  For love had even of thought bereft me,—
Nay, half-way bent to kiss that brow,
  But, with a bound, you blushing left me.

Forget, forget that night's offence,
  Forgive it, if, alas! you can;
'Twas love, 'twas passion—soul and sense—
  'Twas all that's best and worst in man.

That moment, did the assembled eyes
Of heaven and earth my madness view,
I should have seen, thro' earth and skies,
  But you alone—but only you.

Did not a frown from you reprove.
  Myriads of eyes to me were none;
Enough for me to win your love,
  And die upon the spot, when won.

A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY.

I just had turned the classic page.
  And traced that happy period over,
When blest alike were youth and age,
And love inspired the wisest sage,
  And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.

Before I laid me down to sleep
  Awhile I from the lattice gazed
Upon that still and moonlight deep,
  With isles like floating gardens raised,
For Ariel there his sports to keep;
While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores
The lone night-fisher plied his oars.

I felt,—so strongly fancy's power
Came o'er me in that witching hour,—
As if the whole bright scenery there
  Were lighted by a Grecian sky,
And I then breathed the blissful air
  That late had thrilled to Sappho's sigh.

Thus, waking, dreamt I,—and when Sleep
  Came o'er my sense, the dream went on;
Nor, through her curtain dim and deep,
  Hath ever lovelier vision shone.
I thought that, all enrapt, I strayed
Through that serene, luxurious shade,
Where Epicurus taught the Loves
  To polish virtue's native brightness,—
As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves
  Have played with, wear a smoother whiteness.[1]
'Twas one of those delicious nights
  So common in the climes of Greece,
When day withdraws but half its lights,
  And all is moonshine, balm, and peace.
And thou wert there, my own beloved,
And by thy side I fondly roved
Through many a temple's reverend gloom,
And many a bower's seductive bloom,
Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught.
And sages sighed and lovers thought;
Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern,
  But all was formed to soothe or move,
To make the dullest love to learn,
  To make the coldest learn to love.

And now the fairy pathway seemed
  To lead us through enchanted ground,
Where all that bard has ever dreamed
  Of love or luxury bloomed around.
Oh! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene—
Along the alley's deepening green
Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers,
And scented and illumed the bowers,
Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves,
Amid the lone Hercynian groves,
Appear those countless birds of light,
That sparkle in the leaves at night,
And from their wings diffuse a ray
Along the traveller's weary way.

'Twas light of that mysterious kind.
  Through which the soul perchance may roam,
When it has left this world behind,
  And gone to seek its heavenly home.
And, Nea, thou wert by my side,
Through all this heavenward path my guide.

But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged
That upward path, the vision changed;
And now, methought, we stole along
  Through halls of more voluptuous glory
Than ever lived in Teian song,
  Or wantoned in Milesian story.[2]

And nymphs were there, whose very eyes
Seemed softened o'er with breath of sighs;
Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed,
A mute appeal to passion breathed.

Some flew, with amber cups, around,
  Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;
And, as they passed with youthful bound,
  The onyx shone beneath their feet.[3]
While others, waving arms of snow
  Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,[4]
And showing charms, as loth to show,
  Through many a thin, Tarentian fold,
Glided among the festal throng
Bearing rich urns of flowers along
Where roses lay, in languor breathing,
And the young beegrape, round them wreathing,
Hung on their blushes warm and meek,
Like curls upon a rosy cheek.

Oh, Nea! why did morning break
  The spell that thus divinely bound me?
Why did I wake? how could I wake
  With thee my own and heaven around me!

* * * * *

Well—peace to thy heart, though another's it be,
And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me!
To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,
And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet
Their allurements forgive and their splendor forget.

Farewell to Bermuda,[5] and long may the bloom
Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume;
May spring to eternity hallow the shade,
Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has strayed.

And thou—when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam
Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home,
Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,
I have led thee along, and have told by the way
What my heart all the night had been burning to say—
Oh! think of the past—give a sigh to those times,
And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.

* * * * *

If I were yonder wave, my dear,
  And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near
  My land of bliss, my fairy ground.

If I were yonder couch of gold,
  And thou the pearl within it placed,
I would not let an eye behold
  The sacred gem my arms embraced.

If I were yonder orange-tree,
  And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee
  To scent the most imploring air.

Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,
  Give not the wave that odorous sigh,
Nor let its burning mirror drink
  The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,
  So pictured in the waters seem,
That I could gladly plunge to seek
  Thy image in the glassy stream.

Blest fate! at once my chilly grave
  And nuptial bed that stream might be;
I'll wed thee in its mimic wave.
  And die upon the shade of thee.

Behold the leafy mangrove, bending
  O'er the waters blue and bright,
Like Nea's silky lashes, lending
  Shadow to her eyes of light.

Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn,
  Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes:
In every star thy glances burn;
  Thy blush on every floweret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught
  Of bright or beautiful or rare,
Sweet to the sense of pure to thought,
  But thou art found reflected there.

[1] This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus.

[2] The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions.

[3] It appears that in very splendid mansions the floor or pavement was frequently of onyx.

[4] Bracelets of this shape were a favorite ornament among the women of antiquity.

[5] The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, the discoverer of this "island of hogs and devils" might have been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, who, about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth century), was sent Patriarch of the Latin church to Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which he encountered.—Travels of the Jesuits, vol. i.

THE SNOW SPIRIT.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep
  An island of lovelier charms;
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
  Like Hebe in Hercules' arms.
The blush of your bowers is light to the eye,
  And their melody balm to the ear;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,
  And the Snow Spirit never comes here.

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl
  That shines through thy lips when they part,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,
  As a murmur of thine on the heart.
Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,
  As he cradles the birth of the year;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,
  But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

How sweet to behold him when borne on the gale,
  And brightening the bosom of morn,
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil
  O'er the brow of each virginal thorn.
Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts
  Is the veil of a vestal severe;
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,
  Should the Snow Spirit ever come here.

But fly to his region—lay open thy zone,
  And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,
  Should not melt in the daybeam like him.
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet
  O'er his luminous path will appear—
Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet,
  But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

* * * * *

  I stole along the flowery bank,
While many a bending seagrape[1] drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar
That winged me round this fairy shore.

  'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes
When love-thoughts in her bosom rise.
Oh, for a naiad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour!

  A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,
And, light along the water's brim,
I steered my gentle bark by him;
For fancy told me, Love had sent
This gentle bird with kind intent
To lead my steps, where I should meet—
I knew not what, but something sweet.

  And—bless the little pilot dove!
He had indeed been sent by Love,
To guide me to a scene so dear
As fate allows but seldom here;
One of those rare and brilliant hours.
That, like the aloe's lingering flowers,
May blossom to the eye of man
But once in all his weary span.

  Just where the margin's opening shade
A vista from the waters made,
My bird reposed his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.
Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair!
What spell, what magic raised her there?
'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild,
And bloomy as the dimpled child,
Whose spirit in elysium keeps
Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps.

  The broad banana's green embrace
Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace;
One little beam alone could win
The leaves to let it wander in.
And, stealing over all her charms,
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
New lustre to each beauty lent,—
Itself all trembling as it went!

  Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe
Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge
Mixt with its shade, like evening's light
Just touching on the verge of night.
Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid,
Seemed glowing through the ivory lid,
And, as I thought, a lustre threw
Upon her lip's reflecting dew,—
Such as a night-lamp, left to shine
Alone on some secluded shrine,
May shed upon the votive wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath.

  Was ever vision half so sweet!
Think, think how quick my heart-pulse beat,
As o'er the rustling bank I stole;—
Oh! ye, that know the lover's soul,
It is for you alone to guess,
That moment's trembling happiness.

[1] The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.

A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE.

Behold, my love, the curious gem
  Within this simple ring of gold;
'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them
  Who lived in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
  Upon her hand this gem displayed,
Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse
  Should see it grace a lovelier maid.

Look, dearest, what a sweet design!
  The more we gaze, it charms the more;
Come—closer bring that cheek to mine,
  And trace with me its beauties o'er.

Thou seest, it is a simple youth
  By some enamored nymph embraced—
Look, as she leans, and say in sooth
  Is not that hand most fondly placed?

Upon his curled head behind
  It seems in careless play to lie,
Yet presses gently, half inclined
  To bring the truant's lip more nigh.

Oh happy maid! Too happy boy!
  The one so fond and little loath,
The other yielding slow to joy—
  Oh rare, indeed, but blissful both.

Imagine, love, that I am he,
  And just as warm as he is chilling;
Imagine, too, that thou art she,
  But quite as coy as she is willing:

So may we try the graceful way
  In which their gentle arms are twined,
And thus, like her, my hand I lay
  Upon thy wreathed locks behind:

And thus I feel thee breathing sweet,
  As slow to mine thy head I move;
And thus our lips together meet,
  And thus,—and thus,—I kiss thee, love.

* * * * *

There's not a look, a word of thine,
  My soul hath e'er forgot;
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine
  Which I remember not.

There never yet a murmur fell
  From that beguiling tongue,
Which did not, with a lingering spell,
Upon thy charmed senses dwell,
  Like songs from Eden sung.

Ah! that I could, at once, forget
  All, all that haunts me so—
And yet, thou witching girl,—and yet,
To die were sweeter than to let
  The loved remembrance go.

No; if this slighted heart must see
  Its faithful pulse decay,
Oh let it die, remembering thee,
And, like the burnt aroma, be
  Consumed in sweets away.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

FROM BERMUDA.[1]

"The daylight is gone—but, before we depart,
"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
"The kindest, the dearest—oh! judge by the tear
"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

  'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like me,
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

  Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new—
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him
Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair,
And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there!

  Last night, when we came from the Calabash-Tree,
When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free,
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day
Set the magical springs of my fancy in play,
And oh,—such a vision as haunted me then
I would slumber for ages to witness again.
The many I like, and the few I adore,
The friends who were dear and beloved before.
But never till now so beloved and dear,
At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here;
And soon,—oh, at once, did the light of their smiles
To a paradise brighten this region of isles;
More lucid the wave, as they looked on it, flowed,
And brighter the rose, as they gathered it, glowed.
Not the valleys Heraean (though watered by rills
Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills.[2]
Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild,
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,)
Could boast such a lustre o'er land and o'er wave
As the magic of love to this paradise gave.

  Oh magic of love! unembellished by you,
Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue?
Or shines there a vista in nature or art,
Like that which Love opes thro' the eye to the heart?

  Alas, that a vision so happy should fade!
That, when morning around me in brilliancy played,
The rose and the stream I had thought of at night
Should still be before me, unfadingly bright;
While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream,
And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream.

  But look, where, all ready, in sailing array,
The bark that's to carry these pages away,[3]
Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind,
And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind.
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love!
Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be,
And the roar of those gales would be music to me.
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,
Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew,
Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam
Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home.

[1] Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library;" but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those islands.

[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.

[3] A ship, ready to sail for England.

THE STEERMAN'S SONG,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.[1]

When freshly blows the northern gale,
  And under courses snug we fly;
Or when light breezes swell the sail,
  And royals proudly sweep the sky;
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
  I stand, and, as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
  I think of her I love, and cry,
    Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow
  Right from the point we wish to steer;
When by the wind close-hauled we go.
  And strive in vain the port to near;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer
  My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
  I watch the sails and sighing say,
    Thus, my boy! thus.

But see the wind draws kindly aft,
  All hands are up the yards to square,
And now the floating stu'n-sails waft
  Our stately ship thro' waves and air.
Oh! then I think that yet for me
  Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,
Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee—
  And in that hope I smiling sing,
    Steady, boy! so.

[1] I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the Admiral Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We separated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded to New York.

TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1]

At morning, when the earth and sky
  Are glowing with the light of spring,
We see thee not, thou humble fly!
  Nor think upon thy gleaming wing.

But when the skies have lost their hue,
  And sunny lights no longer play,
Oh then we see and bless thee too
  For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

Thus let me hope, when lost to me
  The lights that now my life illume,
Some milder joys may come, like thee,
  To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom!

[1] The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment.

TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON.

If former times had never left a trace
Of human frailty in their onward race,
Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran,
One dark memorial of the crimes of man;
If every age, in new unconscious prime,
Rose, like a phenix, from the fires of time,
To wing its way unguided and alone,
The future smiling and the past unknown;
Then ardent man would to himself be new,
Earth at his foot and heaven within his view:
Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme
Of full perfection prompt his daring dream,
Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore,
Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before.
But, tracing as we do, through age and clime,
The plans of virtue midst the deeds of crime,
The thinking follies and the reasoning rage
Of man, at once the idiot and the sage;
When still we see, through every varying frame
Of arts and polity, his course the same,
And know that ancient fools but died, to make
A space on earth for modern fools to take;
'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget;
That Wisdom's self should not be tutored yet,
Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth
Of pure perfection midst the sons of earth!

  Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given,
Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven;
O'er dross without to shed the light within,
And dream of virtue while we see but sin.

  Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream,
Might sages still pursue the flattering theme
Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate,
Rise o'er the level of his mortal state,
Belie the monuments of frailty past,
And plant perfection in this world at last!
"Here," might they say, "shall power's divided reign
"Evince that patriots have not bled in vain.
"Here godlike liberty's herculean youth,
"Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by truth
"To full maturity of nerve and mind,
"Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind.
"Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught
"In form no more from cups of state be quaft,
"But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect,
"Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect.
"Around the columns of the public shrine
"Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine,
"Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid,
"Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade,
"No longer here shall Justice bound her view,
"Or wrong the many, while she rights the few;
"But take her range through all the social frame,
"Pure and pervading as that vital flame
"Which warms at once our best and meanest part,
"And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!"

  Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan
The bright disk rather than the dark of man,
That owns the good, while smarting with the ill,
And loves the world with all its frailty still,—
What ardent bosom does not spring to meet
The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat,
Which makes the soul unwilling to resign
The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine!
Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think
The chain of ages yet may boast a link
Of purer texture than the world has known,
And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne.

  But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream
Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam,
Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope,
As shock not reason, while they nourish hope?
No, no, believe me, 'tis not so—even now,
While yet upon Columbia's rising brow
The showy smile of young presumption plays,
Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays.
Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath
Burns with the taint of empires near their death;
And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime,
She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime,[1]

  Already has the child of Gallia's school
The foul Philosophy that sins by rule,
With all her train of reasoning, damning arts,
Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts,
Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood,
The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,—
Already has she poured her poison here
O'er every charm that makes existence dear;
Already blighted, with her blackening trace,
The opening bloom of every social grace,
And all those courtesies, that love to shoot
Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit.

  And, were these errors but the wanton tide
Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride;
The fervid follies and the faults of such
As wrongly feel, because they feel too much;
Then might experience make the fever less,
Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess.
But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill,
All youth's transgression with all age's chill;
The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice,
A slow and cold stagnation into vice.

  Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage,
And latest folly of man's sinking age,
Which, rarely venturing in the van of life,
While nobler passions wage their heated strife,
Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear,
And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,—
Long has it palsied every grasping hand
And greedy spirit through this bartering land;
Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold
So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold,
And conscience, truth, and honesty are made
To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.

  Already in this free, this virtuous state,
Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate,
To show the world, what high perfection springs
From rabble senators, and merchant kings,—
Even here already patriots learn to steal
Their private perquisites from public weal,
And, guardians of the country's sacred fire,
Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire.
Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose
From England's debtors to be England's foes,
Who could their monarch in their purse forget,
And break allegiance, but to cancel debt,
Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue,
Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2]
Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant!
Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant
Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all
From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul,
Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base,
As the rank jargon of that factious race,
Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words,
Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords,
Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts,
And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts.
  Who can, with patience, for a moment see
The medley mass of pride and misery,
Of whips and charters, manacles and rights,
Of slaving blacks and democratic whites,
And all the piebald polity that reigns
In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains?
To think that man, thou just and gentle God!
Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod
O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee,
Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty;
Away, away—I'd rather hold my neck
By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck,
In climes, where liberty has scarce been named,
Nor any right but that of ruling claimed,
Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves
Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves;
Where—motley laws admitting no degree
Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free—
Alike the bondage and the license suit
The brute made ruler and the man made brute.

  But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song,
So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong,
The ills, the vices of the land, where first
Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst,
Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved,
And Frenchmen learned to crush the throne they served—
Thou, calmly lulled in dreams of classic thought,
By bards illumined and by sages taught,
Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene,
That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been.
Why should I wake thee? why severely chase
The lovely forms of virtue and of grace,
That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread
By Spartan matrons round the genial bed,
Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art
Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart.

  Forgive me, Forbes—and should the song destroy
One generous hope, one throb of social joy,
One high pulsation of the zeal for man,
Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,—
Oh! turn to him, beneath those kindred eyes
Thy talents open and thy virtues rise,
Forget where nature has been dark or dim,
And proudly study all her lights in him.
Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget,
And feel that man may reach perfection yet.

[1] "What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early decrepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Philadelphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was intercepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican profligacy on the other; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the purity of American patriotism.

[2] See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in 1794. In short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration of every sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he has related and the documents which he has preserved. Opinion may be suspected of bias, but facts speak for themselves.

TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D.

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.

'Tis evening now; beneath the western star
Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar,
And fills the ears of some consenting she
With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.

The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come,
Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home;
Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms,
And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms.

  In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom,
Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"[1]
Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow,
And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:[2]—
This embryo capital, where Fancy sees
Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees;
Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn
With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn,
Though naught but woods[3] and Jefferson they see,
Where streets should run and sages ought to be.

  And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave,
The dying sun prepares his golden grave.
Oh mighty river! oh ye banks of shade!
Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made,
While still, in all the exuberance of prime,
She poured her wonders, lavishly sublime,
Nor yet had learned to stoop, with humbler care,
From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair;—
Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods,
Your rich savannas and majestic woods,
Where bards should meditate and heroes rove,
And woman charm, and man deserve her love,—
Oh say, was world so bright, but born to grace
Its own half-organized, half-minded race[4]
Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast,
Like vermin gendered on the lion's crest?
Were none but brutes to call that soil their home,
Where none but demigods should dare to roam?
Or worse, thou wondrous world! oh! doubly worse,
Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse
The motley dregs of every distant clime,
Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime
Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere,
In full malignity to rankle here?

  But hold,—observe yon little mount of pines,
Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines.
There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief,
The sculptured image of that veteran chief[5]
Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name,
And climb'd o'er prostrate royalty to fame;
Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train
Cast off their monarch that their mob might reign.

  How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?
Thou more than soldier and just less than sage!
Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part,
Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art,
Nature designed thee for a hero's mould,
But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold.

  While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate,
Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great.
Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds
Her brightest halo round the weakest heads,
Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before,
Proud to be useful, scorning to be more;
Less moved by glory's than by duty's claim,
Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim;
All that thou wert reflects less fame on thee,
Far less, than all thou didst forbear to be.
Nor yet the patriot of one land alone,—
For, thine's a name all nations claim their own;
And every shore, where breathed the good and brave,
Echoed the plaudits thy own country gave.

  Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls
On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls,—
If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate,
Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great,
If thou canst loathe and execrate with me
The poisoning drug of French philosophy,
That nauseous slaver of these frantic times,
With which false liberty dilutes her crimes,
If thou has got, within thy free-born breast,
One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest,
With honest scorn for that inglorious soul,
Which creeps and whines beneath a mob's control,
Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod,
And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god,
There, in those walls—but, burning tongue forbear!
Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that's there:
So here I pause—and now, dear Hume, we part:
But oft again, in frank exchange of heart,
Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear
By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here.
O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs,
'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs,
Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes
With me shall wonder, and with me despise.
While I, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove,
With thee conversing, through that land I love,
Where, like the air that fans her fields of green,
Her freedom spreads, unfevered and serene;
And sovereign man can condescend to see
The throne and laws more sovereign still than he.

[1] "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the Federal City [says Mr. Weld] the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it were, a second Rome."—Weld's Travels, letter iv.

[2] A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose- Creek.

[3] "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same city, is a curious and I believe, a novel circumstance."—Weld, letter iv.

The Federal City (if it, must be called a city), has hot been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it.

[4] The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to disprove in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) belittles her productions in the western world.

[5] On a small hill near the capital there is to be an equestrian statue of General Washington.